Sherlock woke up the next morning with a raging headache. He groaned as he sat up on the bed and looked around confusedly. He didn't remember getting to his room last night, much less into bed.
After taking a few seconds to get his bearings he slowly got up off the bed but lost his balance before standing up and ended up splayed on the floor. He heard the sound of footsteps coming towards the door and wondered if Mrs Hudson had already come up to make his tea.
He was more than a little surprised when he looked up to see John Watson standing over him.
"Oh god, you were actually here last night," he groaned, and banged his head lightly on the floor in exasperation.
John leaned down to help him up. "I'm surprised you remember."
"Trust me, I wish I didn't," Sherlock replied. He eyed John critically, trying to ascertain what mood he was in.
His words from last night were starting to come back to him and he cringed at the thought of all the things John had found out. "I take it this is the part where we talk about what happened?"
"Precisely," John said. "It'll be swell," he added sarcastically.
"Aw shit," Sherlock swore as he sat on the bed with his head in his hands, already dreading the conversation ahead. "Surely you have something better to do. Aren't you supposed to be on your sex holiday?"
John's facial expression hardened. "It's called a honeymoon, Sherlock," he replied sternly. "And for the record, I would be if I hadn't come here last night to find my best friend completely drunk out of his mind, thinking he was hallucinating and acting like it was a perfectly okay thing to do."
By the end of the exchange John was shouting, anger and fear lacing his tone. Last night's behaviour was so out of character for Sherlock that John couldn't control his temper.
It had never been easy to talk to Sherlock about how he was feeling when they were living together and John didn't imagine it would be any easier now. He was dreading the conservation about as much as the detective.
Sherlock felt guilt clutching at him after John's outburst. He'd been so careless last night, both because of how much he'd had to drink and because of what he'd said. He was still shocked that he'd talked to John so normally. He'd always been able to distinguish between the real John and the not so real John, whether it be his voice or his whole presence. But clearly the alcohol had clouded his mind. Maybe a little more than he had initially intended.
A silence had fallen over the room, which Sherlock only dared to break after he observed John's breathing rate regain a somewhat controlled rhythm. "Would you at least let me have a shower before we talk"?
John sighed loudly, but conceded. "Yeah, sure. But when you're done you're going to eat some breakfast and we're going to talk about what happened."
"Yes, mother," Sherlock muttered under his breath as he walked away.
As Sherlock walked over to the bathroom he tried to recall what he had said last night. While his memory wasn't as fuzzy, or possibly non-existent, as it should be, he was pretty sure he didn't remember everything he had said, which worried him. He didn't want to reveal to John any more than he already had.
Once he was inside he closed the door behind him and laid his forehead against it. His head was still pounding, his mouth felt incredibly dry and he really didn't want to deal with John's worries right now. It had been bad enough to be lectured by Mycroft after his little slip it, and every slip up after that. He blamed himself enough as it was, and he really didn't need anyone else adding to that guilt.
After being clean for so many years, it was quite a blow to relapse as badly as he had done.
He tried not to think about it as he shed his clothes and stepped into the warm shower, staying under the cascading water as long as he thought John would allow without breaking down the door and demanding that Sherlock stop putting off their conversation. He really didn't put it past John to do just that.
After drying off and getting into his pyjamas and dressing gown Sherlock walked into the kitchen and wordlessly took the toast and tea that John had made for him. He then sat down on the sofa in the living room and just waited.
John watched everything curiously; surprised, and at the same time relieved, that he didn't have to force Sherlock to eat.
He joined the detective on the sofa and sat silently wondering where exactly he was supposed to begin this conversation. Sherlock had managed to spill so many hidden truths in so little time that he had no idea where to start.
He counted things off in his head. Firstly, there was the drinking; he'd never known Sherlock to consume alcohol, much less get completely plastered. Then there was the relaxed attitude towards thinking he was hallucinating John. Then there was the relapse, and even more worriedly, the overdose. And finally there was one final nagging thought: Serbia. What exactly had happened there that made it so hard for Sherlock to forget?
He didn't know what Sherlock had been through in his time away dismantling Moriarty's network. But it seemed one instance had been bad enough that Sherlock had actually let it slip out, even if he did think he was talking to himself.
John wasn't sure what was more frightening; imaging what could have possibly happened, or finding out the truth. Either way, he was going to have to talk to Sherlock about it.
He was painfully aware of how difficult that would be. The detective was more closed off than anyone he had ever met. But John was hoping that Sherlock's defences were down after the night he had, and maybe, just maybe, he would be able to find out the truth and help his friend.
He set his tea down on the table and turned to Sherlock, who was steadfastly avoiding John's faze by hiding behind his own mug.
"So," John began, "is there anything you want to tell me?"